The Crossroads of Midnight

And all this pain cannot subside,
Not here at the crossroads of midnight.
There’s no recourse now, having wallowed so long in darkness,
Yearning only to see the last remnants of light.

And the angel’s voice pierces the eardrum softly,
And flows delicately in and over the receptacles of sound,
Words enunciated by the voice of longing itself take up residence
Touching him only enough to make him feel something again.

What are these words, and what are these dreams?
It is the hollow trail of passion and unrequited love,
It is the unspoken words exploding in fits of violent rage,
It is the false heart coming to fruition, achieving awareness of its own impurity.


I remain, though sunlight does not.
There is but the shadow of the moonlight passing through clouds,
Quietly falling over dead and broken trees,
A desperate whisper of what I used to be, and of my life’s love,
Which flickers and fades slowly in the emptiness of night.